


Grievances Galore

by batterwitch_dumb_basses



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Human AU, Humanstuck, M/M, gor gor, i sure do like dying and being dead, tagora being a rude little shit, the author starting YET ANOTHER fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:26:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batterwitch_dumb_basses/pseuds/batterwitch_dumb_basses
Summary: Galekh is at university to finish his degree, and improve his knowledge. He's not exactly planning on being more social than he has to.But when he meets the infuriating Tagora - in his kitchen, drinking from his mug - all bets are off.





	1. Good Morning, Sunshine

Of all the things you find acceptable on a Monday morning when you emerge from your room and stumble to the kitchen you regrettably share with several other students, someone you don’t know sipping something from _your mug_ is one of them.

You stand at the door for a minute, frozen, as another student with long hair and a black dress shirt and crisp trousers sips from your _favourite_ mug.

The one with ‘Save the Icelandic Goats’ on it.¹

He notices you and sets it down with an air of somebody who has been interrupted from something _extremely_ important.

“Can I…” Here he pauses, looks you up and down disdainfully, and then resumes speaking. “Can I help you?”

 _Can I help you?_ He’s sat in your kitchen, looking immaculate, with hair as glossy as a raven’s wing, asking if _he_ can help _you_. You draw yourself up to your full height, trying to think of something witty to say.

“Perhaps it would be of assistance if you relinquished my mug,” you say, aware of how snotty you sound. He looks a little nervous – but fleetingly, as he looks down at your mug with perhaps the archest look you’ve ever seen.

“I assure you, if it hadn’t been left on the draining board in such a haphazard way, I wouldn’t have touched it in a million years. At least allow me to finish it?”

“It’s _mine_ ,” you snarl, composure lost. He rolls his eyes.

“Well, we _are_ quite the drama king, aren’t we?” He stands up, and he barely looks taller, but you do get a good look at how thin he is as he walks over to the sink with your mug. For a split second, you think he’s going to wash it up, and your shoulders start to untense.

Before he pours the remainder of what must be coffee into the dishwater where you put your plates in to soak the evening before and lets the mug sink into it.²

“There,” he says, not without some satisfaction. The petty bastard.

He swivels on his heel and begins to walk towards you, and goddamnit, even though you’re seething, it’s so unexpected you take a step back. He, however, seems to have predicted you would, and walks blithely on by, running a hand through his hair, and only pausing when he’s at the door.

“ _Do_ tell Tizzy I went home. I wouldn’t want her to worry.” With that, he pushes the door wide open, and stalks through like he’s a fashion model and the grubby carpet is his runway. He lets the door slam after him.

You don’t know who Tizzy is, but when you do, you’re going to make them sorry that they ever inflicted that insufferable prick on you at such an unsociable hour.

 

It’s only later on, when you’re walking out of your 10 am lecture, that it occurs to you that you have, in fact, seen this douchebag before. He hangs out with Tyzias, one of the law students who makes up the group of flatmates that you live with, and when you’ve seen her in hallways or any of the communal areas, he’s usually by her side, his hair bundled half-up into a weird ponytail-bun combo mix while the rest flows loosely. The sloppiness of that hairstyle that still manages to speak of elegance has always annoyed you beforehand, to the point where you suppose the lack of it this morning must have prevented you from recognising him.

He’s also a law student, you think; you’ve seen him and Tyzias emerging from the same classrooms together. It would make sense that the only reason someone you view as actually being rather smart, from the few conversations you’ve had, would only have put up with someone like that for academical reasons.

You’re pondering on how best to talk it over with your flatmate when you bump into someone, who drops the large pile of paper they were carrying. You begin to stumble out an apology – you do this a lot, given your height and tendency to get lost in your own thoughts – when you realise with horror who it is. The douchebag from this morning is tapping his foot, his hair done in its usual style, wearing a smart turquoise waistcoat over this morning’s ensemble.

“If any of those got crumpled, you’re printing them again on _your_ account,” he says snidely, not even bothering to pick them up himself. The students around you begin to give the two of you a wide berth.

Okay. You know this one is most likely on you. But you’ve had just about enough of this asshole.

“I don’t think that could be entirely quantified as fair, given that it was your lack of direction that led you not to look where you were going in the first place.”

He flushes, you note with a slight smugness, but steps elegantly forward.

“Do you _really_ think that’s true? Or is that just tightass speak for ‘look where you’re going’, hm?”

Damn law students. You know he isn’t the only one with pink cheeks now, and you curl your lip at him.

“Perhaps if you’d be so kind as to unburden the other students of the obligation to avoid your mess, we could have a proper discussion over this, rather than a spat in the hallway,” you hiss at him, and he rolls his eyes like a teenager who’s just been told he’s grounded.

“I’m sorry, you knock everything out of my arms with your clumsy body, and you expect me to pick it up? Do I look like you pay me a wage?” He gestures to the finely tailored waistcoat, and you glare at him.

“If you are willing to make everyone else’s lives a hassle, then that fault is entirely upon your own personality, but unlike them, I am not willing to indulge this cold little tantrum of yours for longer than I have to.”

He scoffs. “Do you really think of yourself as above everyone else?”

He’s fluently asking you question after question when you try to make a point, and you get the horrible feeling that whatever field he goes into, he’s going to be an excellent lawyer. You stand up a little straighter so you can properly look down at him.

“I do not see myself in a superior light, I simply think that it would be better for everyone if the papers were out of their way, especially when so many people are surely on their way to classes.”

“Then _you_ pick them up.”

Oh.

You’re seething again, but he’s got you backed into a corner. You’re not the type of asshole to walk away from a mess that you may or may not have caused, and you most certainly can’t now that you’ve pointed out it’s in the way of other students.

And you know for a fact that this asshole is unlikely to clear up what may or may not be _his_ mess. You glare at him.

“I’ll _assist_ you in picking these up, but I am not crawling around on my hands and knees like some sort of shameful peasant unless you also take some form of responsibility for your actions.”

He weighs it up for a minute, and it’s almost like you can see cogs turning in his mind.

“I suppose I have nothing better to do. But who even uses an archaic word like peasant these days? Do _try_ to keep up with the times, dear. Most of us at least upgraded to _peon._ ”

Oh fuckdamnit, he’s right. That’s a far better word. You settle for yanking him down by the arm with you as you kneel down instead of a witty retort, and something within you is smugly satisfied by the surprised noise he makes when you do so.

“Musclebrain,” he mutters under his breath as you gather up the spilt papers. You try _very hard_ to keep your temper under control.

“Overdressed twit,” you spit back. You can see the other students still keeping a wise distance from the two of you, and you eventually gather up all of his papers. Mostly law stuff, although here and there, there are some handwritten notes in elegant looping handwriting. Of _course_ he has fancy handwriting, the snide little git. You both stand up, glaring at each other.

He huffs at you, and brushes off his waistcoat and trousers meticulously, making sure any potential dust is off of him before he all but snatches his papers away.

“I mean it about reprinting these,” he snipes over his shoulder, as he walks away.

Okay.

You are absolutely _done_ with this prick. You storm off in the opposite direction, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. You pride yourself on being an erudite student, the sort to never find yourself wrongfooted by anyone else. You have been an award-winning debate team captain, and you _know_ you have the upper hand in an argument.³

You slow down as soon as you round the corner. For once, though, you didn’t have to explain half of what you said. How strange. He understood what you were saying immediately, and formed comebacks just as quickly. There’s a strange thrill to that, a feeling of having met an equal, but you shrug it off quickly. He’s a rude little shit, through and through, no matter how smart he is.

And you, Galekh Xigisi, do not allow _anyone_ to be rude to you.

 

* * *

 

¹ Goats happen to be your favourite animal, and there are tragically few Icelandic goats left upon the planet.

² This completely ruins the washing up water, dirtying everything in there. It's intensely annoying and a complete dick move.

³ In fact, your high school won the state championship with you at the helm. You're not really one for losing arguments. Ever. Starting, yes; losing, no.


	2. The Big Unfriendly Giant Strikes Again

You barely make it back to your room before the shaking starts.

 

University has not been kind to you. You’re not the sort of person who likes to be around so many people who are so  _ obviously  _ better at what you do than you are. Your flatmates like to leave their washing-up for days on end, too, and they’ve told you to stop doing it for them.

 

You’ve kind of….stopped going in your own kitchen, to be honest. It’s better to walk over to Tyzias’ flat or eat something cold you can cleanly prepare on your desk in your room. The problem is, you always need your coffee. Well, you’re a student! You need your caffeinated lifeblood. 

 

So Tyzias has agreed that you can come over a few nights a week, and study with her. She’s a good friend, really, although you’d be loath to ever say as much to her. She’ll let you get your coffee, and any other day you’ll just swing by the campus Starbucks to get your fix.

 

Aside from the standard terrible carpet, you love Tizzy’s flat. It’s miles cleaner than yours, 

 

Usually, you don’t tend to see her flatmates, but today was a sad exception, what with the Big Unfriendly Giant first interrupting your much-needed coffee time, and secondly knocking your papers everywhere  _ where everyone could see. _

 

As the door shuts behind you, you let the shaking take over. Everyone. Everyone saw you arguing with that  _ prick _ . Everyone saw you, and you can almost feel their eyes crawling over you like insects. You slide down the door with your back to it, and curl up a little, taking deep breaths. 

 

“You’re fine,” you tell yourself, harshly. “You’re absolutely fine, and there’s no need for this nonsense.” A few repetitions have you in a state where you can stand up, wobbling, and make it over to your bed, and more importantly, under your blanket. 

 

You don’t know how this will work out, if you’re honest. A lawyer has to be confident, absolutely certain in what they’re doing, and willing to take a stand. You, on the other hand, are going to be terrible if you can’t stop shaking and panicking every time you come up against the slightest confrontation. It’s not that you don’t believe that you’re right. It’s that your confidence is just shit, and you’re not sure if anyone would want to hire a lawyer who might have a panic attack in the middle of the courtroom, no matter how well they know their stuff.

 

You can almost hear the conversation you had with your parents when you told them what degree you were going for, but you bury your head. A perk of being at uni is that no parental figure is going to come knocking at your door when you need to be alone.

 

“Tagora.” 

 

Except, of course, Tyzias. 

 

You don’t answer, and she sighs.

 

“Hey. I know you’re in there. One of your flatmates let me in, and for the record--”

 

The door swings open.

 

“--you never remember to lock your door if you’re panicking,” she finishes, looking unsurprised. You, on the other hand, jump a mile.

 

“Tizzy, could you just--”

 

“Nope. I can’t. I need to make sure you’re okay, otherwise I’m going to feel like an asshole.”

 

You groan and curl up further under the blanket, but it’s Tyzias. She walks in regardless and sits herself down at your desk, setting down her metal flask and putting her backpack down on the floor.

 

“Stelsa’s going to come visit on Saturday,” she says, quietly. “I wondered if you wanted to come out to lunch with us?”

  
“And be the third wheel to you getting fussed over? No, thanks.” You stick your head out of the blanket slowly. 

 

“Yeah, I said as much, but she’s really taken a bit of a shine to you. She said she’s going to bring some shortbread for you, though.” She sips at her flask, and you can’t disagree with the fact that Stelsa, Tyzias’ over-the-top girlfriend, is also an excellent baker. 

 

It’s half an hour before you fully come out of the blanket and sit on your bed. Tyzias is, predictably, studying. She has one of the chunky textbooks out, and is noting some stuff down, frowning to herself.

 

“Tizzy?” you venture. She looks over at you.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“It’s what friends do. Honestly, what sort of friends do you have?” She shakes her head slowly.

 

You both know your ‘friends’ are just fellow rich kids who don’t like each other, much less you. You, at least, didn’t have to have any strings pulled to get here. You know plenty of Ivy League idiots who only got in because their daddies made a substantial donation to the school.

 

Tyzias’ phone starts pinging with message after message, and she softly swears.

 

“Hey, Tagora, are you going to be alright if I go back? Stelsa wants to ring me, and--”

 

“And I’m allergic to your saccharine sweetheart. Go. Get out of here. Scram.” You walk over, helping her gather up her stuff as she scrambles to get everything back into her heavy-duty backpack. You lock the door behind her, this time, because frankly it makes you feel better, and stops that nagging feeling that you get whenever you  _ don’t  _ lock it. The one that says your flatmates are going to come and snoop around your room, or come in and shout at you.

 

It’s a pretty stupid feeling, but locking the door still makes you feel better. 

  
  


Later, in the evening, you decide to venture out to Starbucks. You’re lacking in coffee and patience, but you’re still too chickenshit to actually try going in the kitchen. Pre-drinks for the pre-drinks had just kicked off, and you’re not an idiot.

 

You order your coffee, and you’re just waiting for it by the little counter when someone clears their throat behind you. 

 

“I endeavoured to trace you, but it seems as though serendipity is the only truly reliable method of locating you.”

 

Well, shit.

 

“Nice to see you,” you drawl, like you’re trying out for the role of Draco Malfoy just to make Tom Felton cry.  “Tell me, do you always loom like you’re trying to be the Addams’ family butler, or is it a natural gift?”

 

The asshole from Tizzy’s flat glares down at you. 

 

“Were any of them damaged?” he asks, refusing to rise to your bait. He must be talking about the papers, you realise, but you’re not willing to get off your (absolutely fake) high horse.

 

“No, not really, but I won’t thank you for that. They could have been ripped. All my lecture notes could have been utterly destroyed, and you wouldn’t have been able to replace them, do you realise that?”

 

“I sincerely doubt that you could not have enlisted Tyzias’ assistance in replacing them,” he fires back. 

 

Fuck. He has you there. You’re both on the same course, and she has all the same lectures you do.

 

“Well, are you saying your flatmate should pay for your mistake?” you ask, snidely, and he almost, almost says something - you see him literally clamp his mouth shut around the word he was forming.

 

“That doesn’t seem entirely consequential,” he says, slowly, “given that what we’re discussing is purely theoretical.”

 

“Sorry, I suppose I’m used to discussing the theoretical given the high degree of what I study.” You aren’t really sorry, and both of you know that.

 

“Are you saying that someone in your desired profession shouldn’t deal in the factual?” he asks, softly, and hot damn, he’s  _ good _ . You raise an eyebrow.

 

“If you can remember me saying those specific words, you’re dealing in the delusional.” You hear your name, and take the coffee from the woman who’s holding it. “Was there anything else, or did you just want to check you didn’t need to apologise for ruining my day?”

 

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, and then utters the shortest sentence you may ever have heard him say.

 

“You’re excessively rude.”

 

You pretend to consider it, and then shrug. “Well, you’re excessively annoying, so I suppose it balances everything out.” 

 

With that, you allow yourself to start walking away. It should have been a grand moment, wherein you had the last word. You’re good at that, getting in the last word just before you run away from the confrontation, but for once you find you aren’t actually as shaky over this. But before you can revel in that, he follows to walk by your side.

 

“I fail to comprehend why you feel the need to be so caustic.”

 

“You’re being even more annoying now.” You wish you could walk faster than him, but you don’t think that’s possible. His legs are like beanstalks. Thick, annoying beanstalks.

 

“I wish to comprehend,” he says, as if that’s going to butter you up any. You narrow your eyes. 

 

“Well, firstly, you’re not respecting the fact the conversation is over. Do you wish to comprehend, or do you wish to feel like you’re in the right? Because neither of those is likely to happen.”

 

He flushes, and you realise that when he does, the tips of his ears burn red as well. It’s interesting, for some reason.

 

“So you’re unwilling to reach a compromise?”

 

“I’m unwilling to talk with you right now. Don’t you have some other poor soul to bother about drinking coffee? And while I’m at it, do you always enjoy interrupting people when they’re drinking coffee, or am I  _ special _ ?” You bat your eyelashes, and he huffs with annoyance.

 

“You’re polluting your body with that slop.”

 

“What do you care?” You raise an eyebrow. “It’s my body, isn’t it? Last I checked, your body was standing next to me and making some very annoying noises.”

 

You’re pissing him off, you can tell, and you are now actually starting to feel a little shaky as you keep heading towards your dorms. He seems torn on whether to keep following you, but decides to keep it up. Oh, joy.

 

“The long-term effects of poor-quality caffeine on the brain have been cited by many different people. Irritability can be one of them.”

 

“No, I think I’m irritable right now because you’re following me, Bigfoot.” You glare at him, and he rolls his eyes and stops walking. 

 

“It’s practically substance abuse!” he calls after you. You flip him off with the hand not carrying your coffee.

  
  
  



	3. Temper, Temper

If somebody doesn’t help you deal with that cretinous annoyance soon, you’re going to, as the kids say, throw hands.

 

Tagora, it seems, has established a routine while you weren’t looking. He is nearly always at your flat, drinking coffee in your kitchen (though now he avoids your goat mug like it has the Bubonic Plague¹) and talking with Tyzias. He seems mostly to be studying with her, which you can’t fault, but sometimes his tone is snappier than you’d like to hear coming from anybody.

 

You may also be slightly mad that he called you Bigfoot. You may be tall, but your feet are of average height. You refuse - nay, you abhorrently defer! - from being compared to the Sasquatch just for trying to have a civil conversation with someone who doesn’t deserve you wasting your time on their measly and miserable posterior.

 

However, you have to talk sometime, given that he’s practically living at your flat. The next time you see him, in your kitchen making himself a cup of coffee, you clear your throat and walk towards him.

 

“I don’t think we got off on the right foot last time,” you say, pleasantly. He stares at you as though you’ve just said you’re thinking of turning into a unicorn.

 

“Don’t you?” he asks, sweetly, after a heartbeat’s pause. 

 

“Didn’t I just say so?” You counter his question with a question of your own, and he looks slightly infuriated.

 

“I wasn’t listening,” he says, blithely, instead. You grit your teeth and stick out your hand.

 

“Galekh Xigisi. I don’t believe I know your full name.”

 

“It’s Tagora Gorjek.” He leans against the counter, watching the steam rise out of the cup he’s holding. You actually feel your heart lift slightly. The conversation seems to actually be going alright, and he’s not been  _ outrageously  _ rude, so far.

 

“So, what brings you to our flat?” you ask, trying to keep the warmth in your smile. He raises an eyebrow.

 

“The excellent company, of course. I couldn’t stand to be away from your illustrious presence, you know.” He furrows his brows at you. “Seriously, why do you even care? Do you quiz everyone who comes around here this much? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but the Spanish Inquisition stopped holding their tryouts, oh, I don’t know, two centuries ago?”

 

“It’s not yet been two centuries,” you say automatically. He stares at you, and you feel compelled to go on. “It will have been two centuries in 2034, but for now, it’s been a century and eighty-five years.”

 

He sighs and presses a hand to his forehead. “Right. Of course. How  _ stupid _ of me not to know the exact date.”

 

“You weren’t far off,” you tell him. He just groans.

 

“You know, Xigisi, you’re a walking headache,” he says, nastily. “I don’t  _ care _ about the exact date. I care that I can’t make myself a cup of coffee without you coming in and  _ questioning  _ me over why I’m here.” He seems to be talking quicker, and you sigh sharply.

 

“You were, in fact, the one who brought it up in conversation. It’s erratic of you to accuse me of anything but making conversation.” You sit on the sofa, and pick a book up off the table that you’ve left there - the latest in a good series you’ve been following.

 

“Oh, yeah, because immediately reading the second someone pulls you up on something is making conversation.”

 

You ignore him, and he sighs, full of irritation. Five minutes later, you hear the door slam, a crash, and a sharp, human hiss. Looking up, you see him holding his arm, which is slowly turning red. The mug lies in pieces on the floor, and he almost steps on one as you start walking towards him.

 

“Look, if it’s about the mug I’ll replace it-- hey, let  _ go  _ of me!” You grab his good arm, and steer him to the sink, and turning on the cold tap, holding his arm under it. He’s tensed up, but you finally let go of him, open the freezer and rummage through your drawer until you find a bag of frozen...well, it’s fruit, but you don’t have frozen peas. You take his arm out from under the tap, gingerly, and put the bag of frozen fruit on the red mark on his arm.

 

“If you would be seated, I’ll fetch Tyzias, seeing as she is presumably here--”

 

“She’s on a date.” You look back at him. He’s looking down at the floor.

 

“Isn’t she supervising your visit?”

 

“She’s letting me use her room to study while she’s out with Stelsa.” He has a notably strange expression on his face. “And of course, this is what happens the first time she leaves me alone in her flat.”

 

“You’re-- we’re not meant to give our keys to other students!” You can’t believe a law student would break the rules like that, and you sit down heavily. He shakes his head.

 

“No, we found a loophole. She has her keys. I’m just here without them.”

 

Oh. 

 

Well.

 

Technically, no, that’s not against the rules, but you are starting to feel very strongly that it  _ should _ be.

 

“What kind of imbecile would even attempt to open a door whilst holding a hot beverage in one hand?” you ask him. It’s not that you are being petty, but you’re being petty. He glares at you.

 

“Maybe someone who’s managed it before? You make it sound like I was intending to break that mug or something.”

 

“Killing someone without intention to do so is still punishable under law.”

 

“Oh, yes, because accidentally breaking crockery is as bad as murder. My bad, I  _ forgot. _ ” He tries to balance the bag of fruit on his arm and reaches up with one hand to tug at his ponytail. Predictably, the fruit falls off his arm and onto the floor when the hair tie is halfway out of his hair. You ignore that.

 

“I never said it was the same. I merely stated the law. Whether your actions are intentional or not, you still must be held accountable for them. I should think that a capable law student would know such things.”

 

He glares at you as he picks up the bag of fruit, and pulls the hair tie fully out. He has got rather long hair, and why he wants it left loose like that, right now, is a mystery to you, until he shakes his head so it falls forward. He doesn’t reply to you, which seems unlike him.

 

“All this, of course, could have been prevented if you had simply stayed in your own abode rather than occupying somebody else’s space,” you tack on, after a minute of silence. He doesn’t reply to that, either, although you don’t quite get the feeling he’s not  _ listening _ . 

 

It takes ten minutes of heavy silence for you to snap.

 

“Are you really so irredeemably impolite as to sit there and not even acknowledge when someone’s attempting to talk with you?! I just gave you first aid--”

 

“Oh, give me a  _ fucking break!”  _ Tagora screams, whipping back around. “Get off your damn high horse, Xigisi! You think people owe you their time? You think they owe you their conversation? I don’t owe you politeness! I don’t owe you time! And yet, for some  _ fucking  _ reason, you think you can just take it from me by force when all that does is  _ pisses me off _ ! I’m  _ so  _ sorry if you don’t think I’m capable, or if you think I should say please and thank you to someone who can’t get a hint through his stupid, gigantic skull, but the world doesn’t owe you  _ shit.  _ So why don’t you just  _ leave me alone!” _

 

Your rage is rumbling through you as lava rises through a volcano, and you draw yourself up to your full height.

 

“Do you seriously intend to accuse me again of the patently untrue, Tagora Gorjek? Out of the two of us, I am not the one acting like an  _ entitled brat. _ ” You open your mouth to say something else, but he stands up, storming to the door, stepping deliberately over the broken mug and slamming it open.

 

“I’m not done talking to you!” you bellow after him, but he’s gone. You hear what must be Tyzias’ room open, shut with a bang, and the lock clicking. 

 

You want to scream.

  
  
  


¹ It doesn’t, and you’re insulted that he’s acting like it does.


	4. Avoid the Problem

You don’t see him for a few days after that.

Tyzias came home and you went without so much as a goodbye, taking your books with you, although you managed to forget Stelsa’s shortbread. While it’s good, it’s not worth interacting with Xigisi for. You couldn’t be paid to do that.

You’re walking to class when someone taps your shoulder. When you turn to see who would dare, you’re greeted with that grumpy face you’ve been avoiding.

“It’s been some time,” he says, somewhat awkwardly. You can’t believe it, but keep walking. What the hell does he think he’s doing? Does he want to continue your argument? Does he think he can still win it or that you even want to talk to him?

“Excuse me, it’s impolite to walk away when someone’s talking to you, Tagora.”

The use of your name throws you, and you stop, turning.

“Is this about the mug? Because if you want me to replace it, I will, provided that you leave me the hell alone.”

He winces. “I didn’t assume that this would go spectacularly, I will admit. But you could stand to let me talk a little.”

“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk to you’ didn’t get through to you?” You carry on walking, and hear him following behind. You can’t mistake those heavy footsteps that follow you.

“Tagora.” He walks in front of you, blocking your way.

“I have class,” you snap, dodging around him. The two of you are starting to draw some unnecessary attention, to be honest, and you can hear a slight susurration from a small group of girls you don’t recognise. They’re definitely talking about you, though; they’re staring as they whisper behind their hands to each other. You think they’re from the teaching course, actually.

He sighs, heavily. “Tyzias tasked me with finding you, actually.”

You stop. “Why?”

“She asked what had happened, and I explained to her the circumstances that led to the incident. She told me I was to deliver this to you.”

He pulls out a tupperware from his messenger bag, and proffers it awkwardly. You take it just as gracefully.

It’s the shortbread. Your heart softens ever so slightly, but only a slight amount. Just a tiny bit.

“Well.” You pop the lid off. “Provided it won’t offend you, have a piece. Consider it payment for tracking me down.”

He seems taken aback, but gingerly takes a square of shortbread from the box. So _that_ doesn’t offend him, at least. Or maybe he’s worried you’d tell Tizzy if he didn’t. That actually seems more likely.

He opens his mouth, and you sigh, trying not to think about how he yelled at you last time. Your voice, thankfully, stays even as you talk.

“I really do have class, you know,” you say. He nods, stepping back awkwardly as you walk away from him, heading towards your next lecture theatre.

It was surprisingly nice of him, though, bringing that. Surprisingly nice given the way he decided to take you to task the last time that you two talked. But, hey, you guess that happens, so you instead go inside and sit down in your usual spot, getting all your things out neatly. You like your things neat in class.

Tyzias is in this class, too, and you feel her eyes on you the entire time. A couple of times, you make awkward eye contact, but you try mostly to listen to what the lecturer is saying, taking studious notes. Taking notes right now has to be more important than worrying about Tizzy – especially seeing as how she sent the Whining Giant after you.

(Is that a good Iron Giant pun? Probably not, but you’re still that bit pissed that you decide to let it slide.)

The girl next to you groans as the speaker continues talking, but you keep on taking notes. You won’t let anyone distract you from that. Not Tizzy, not this girl, and certainly not your own mind, which it has to be said, is trying its best.

“Okay, read the chapter for next lecture, and let me know if you need any help on your essays.” The lecturer lets you all file out. “Oh, Miss Pyrope, could I speak to you for five minutes?” he asks, of a girl in the front row with red glasses. As everyone starts to file out, you catch Tyzias looking at you and starting to walk over.

Oh, nope, you’re not doing this now. Call you a chicken, but you start moving quickly, slipping through the crowd. That’s honestly one of your useless skills, is that – being able to dodge through crowds unlike anyone else, like a ferret.

Tyzias, however, is grudgingly polite, and you know for a fact she’s finding it difficult to go through the crowds. You hear her shout your name, sounding pissed, but you keep moving, heading with determination towards the doors that will lead you out to your dorm.

 

 

Okay. You know it was an asshole move, but hey, you’d rather avoid Tyzias than talk to her right now. She’d probably try to get you to realise where you went wrong or something like that, and quite frankly, you’re not in the mood.

You’re even _less_ in the mood when your phone starts ringing with your sister’s picture flashing up on it. You groan, but you know she’ll be even more of a pain if she doesn’t get an answer, so you pick up.

“Valeria, why are you ringing me?”

“Oh, thank god, you’re _deigning_ to let me speak to you,” she snaps, clearly already in a bad mood. “Listen, Tagora, I’m ringing you about the holidays. Are you seriously refusing to come?”

“I think I’ll be perfectly fine having Christmas at the university,” you snap back, “unless a _bunch_ of our family members get really cool about a whole lot of things.”

“Do _not_ be an asshole about this! God, you do realise you’ve upset Mom, right? She was saying how she’s going to have to take all your Christmas presents back, and if she does, she and Dad are going to be all up in each other’s grill over the holidays, which ruins my holidays. You’re going to ruin my holiday, Tagora!” She screeches that last part.

“No, I’m not. You’re perfectly capable of making it a living hell all by yourself.” You sigh. “And honestly, if my refusing to come and be surrounded by the lot of you makes them argue with each other, they should probably divorce already. I’m sure that as soon as I qualify, I could personally help them with the proceedings.”

“You smarmy little fucker, don’t get _smart_ with me. You’re deliberately ruining Christmas, you hear me? Deliberately ruining _my_ Christmas because of being so stuck up!”

Stuck up is a very funny way to put ‘unwilling to be around homophobic relatives’, you think to yourself. Marie Kondo would have a field day cleaning the trash out of your family tree.

“Valeria, you’re wasting your putrid breath. If you think you can guilt me into coming home for Christmas, you’re wrong, and also a moron.”

You hang up and turn your phone off, because you know your sister has a habit of ringing repeatedly until someone picks up. You’ve no idea why guys who know her snakey reputation continue to date her, but this Christmas, you guess it won’t be your problem.

You doubt that you’ve heard the last of this, though. Valeria is not a bitch who drops a bone of contention easily.

 


End file.
